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“And then?”
“And then just enjoy the free dinner.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just go back inside the restaurant, eat a giant bowl of fettuccini alfredo, and try to enjoy yourself. No use sitting through a dinner in misery, you know what I mean?”
My stomach growls in the name of fettuccine, and suddenly, I’m at ease. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s eat a bowl of pasta.
“Yeah, for once, I think I do know what you mean.”
Milo
At exactly eight o’clock, I pick Senna up from her apartment in Midtown, and we head toward SoHo where I reserved a table for two at one of my favorite steakhouses.
Senna is all long legs and red lips and long blond hair flowing down her back in a mane of curls and waves. And her tight white dress is probably illegal, even after Labor Day.
When we were escorted from the hostess stand to our table, she turned heads the entire way, and her familiar display of flirtatious eyes and long lashes has been in full effect since I picked her up.
Not to mention, her apparently bare foot is already rubbing against my jeans-covered leg.
She’s happy to see me.
And like with all of our previous “dates,” she’s expecting for things to lead toward sex at my apartment by the end of the night.
“How is your steak?” she asks, her voice slightly purring with her words.
“It’s good.”
“Can I have a bite?”
“Uh…sure,” I respond and go to put a piece on her plate, but in a dramatic display of her cleavage pushed out between her arms, she rests her elbows on the table and opens her red-painted lips, urging me to feed it to her.
So, I do.
And she moans her approval.
“You’re right,” she purrs and licks at her bottom lip. “It’s really good.”
I should be one hundred percent enjoying this display.
Should be being the operative words.
But instead of enjoying the ease of our no-strings-attached relationship and the sexual satisfaction we’ve been known to give each other in the past, my mind is about twenty blocks away. In Greenwich Village. Wondering how Maybe is doing.
Is her date going okay?
Is he actually a stand-up guy?
What are his fucking intentions?
That dickhead better not be expecting sex from her tonight…
Every single question and thought bouncing around inside my head only make me more uncomfortable.
When Senna excuses herself for the ladies’ room, a sigh of relief escapes my chest, and I pull my cell out to send a quick message.
Me: How’s it going?
Thankfully, she responds not even a minute later.
Maybe: He’s not a serial killer. At least, I don’t think he is.
Me: That’s reassuring.
Maybe: LOL. It’s fine. No red flags so far.
Me: If any red flags arise, you know you can call me if you need an excuse to escape the situation.
Maybe: Are you offering me a date out?
Me: A date out?
Am I really so old that I don’t know the terms the kids are using anymore?
Maybe: Yeah. You know, where you already make an arrangement with your friend to call in a fake emergency or something if the date goes to shit.
Me: Do you need a fake emergency?
Maybe: LOL. I’m good. And I thought you were on a non-date date tonight?
Me: I am. But I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
Maybe: It’s all good in the hood. Go enjoy your dinner with your lady friend who may or may not be a fuck buddy.
All good in the hood. A part of me wants to laugh, but the part of me that’s worried about her is far too great.
Me: Are you sure? It’ll be a real bummer if you end up as a Missing Girl on Dateline.
Maybe: LOL. I’m fine, Milo. Promise. No need to play the big brother role.
Big brother role?
Is that what I’m doing?
It sure as fuck doesn’t feel like that to me.
Me: How about this? Text me when you get home tonight so I don’t have to worry about you being locked inside some weirdo’s apartment.
Maybe: What if the weirdo finds my phone and pretends to be me and texts you false assurances?
Me: Jesus, kid.
Maybe: I’ve seen Law & Order, Milo. That’s how it works.
Me: Well, then I guess you’d better send me photographic evidence.
Maybe: I can handle that.
I read her text message and wait for the relief and satisfaction of our agreement to take over, but it never comes.
It’s only when another text comes in thirty seconds later that I know exactly what I have to do to make tonight right.
Maybe: This time, I’ll be wearing the right day of the week. ;)
As soon as I can get away from this dinner, I’m going home…alone.
Maybe
Another Saturday at the floral shop and I’m so bored, I might start beating my head against the wall just to spice things up.
